


Two Pointe Conversion

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Underage Drinking, underage in US but not in UK
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-10-31 00:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10887639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: When John meets Sherlock Holmes after a required ballet for athletes class, they immediately hate each other, but that's not the end of the story.





	1. Chapter 1

“How does anyone get that flexible?” John craned his neck toward the mirror at the front of the room, the instructor’s reflected heel propped on the single rung of the portable--what did they call it?--bar, toes pointing and flexing, palms wrapped around the sole. It was meant to demonstrate proper technique for stretching their calves and hamstrings, but John was having some trouble putting it into practice. He could barely lift his foot high enough to stick on the lower (loser) rung, let alone reach his foot.

Greg shrugged, foot laid nonchalantly across the top rung. “I’m not having any trouble.”

“That’s because you have five bloody inches on me, you wanker.”

Greg nodded to the instructor. “And you have five inches on her, so what’s your excuse?”

John gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain in his thigh until he could touch his ankle with his fingertips. “Shut up.”

Two sharp claps sounded behind them. Greg lifted his leg off the bar like it was nothing--tosser--while John had to hop backwards until his foot would slip free of the wood, leaving the flimsy ballet shoe behind.

As John stooped to fetch his shoe, the instructor cooed, “Well done, boys. Now, I want you to practice your pas de bourrées and rond de jambes for next week. And I’d better see dance shoes on those feet next week. You can’t dance in your socks forever. Have a lovely evening.”

As one of the few members of the team to actually have purchased the proper footwear, John rifled through his gym bag as the rest of the rugby team shuffled their way out the door. Once he found his street shoes, he thumped his way to the floor, slipping on socks as he watched the group behind the door slowly grow smaller. Mrs. Hudson, a tiny woman of at least sixty, picked up the portable bar like it was nothing and set it up against the wall next to a mess of stereo equipment, smiling to John in the mirror.

“Oh, honey.” She spun to face him. “Be a dear, and put on your street shoes in the hall. They aren’t allowed in here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” John stood again, slinging the bag over his shoulder as he shoved at the contents, attempting to zip it as he walked.

Just as he reached the door, he hit something solid, forcing an “oof” from his lungs. For a moment he thought he had run into the door frame and was prepared for a good jabbing from his teammates. He was not prepared to look up to find a person staring down at him, buds in ears and Discman in hand. It was a boy about his age, objectively just a bit taller than Greg, but it felt like this boy towered over him. His hair was a riot of curls, his features as sharp as his gaze.

“Oh,” John said, finally managing to shut his bag. “Pardon--”

“Move,” the boy bit out, tugging the buds from his ears.

“Pardon me?”

“Yes, I gathered.” The boy rolled his eyes. “But all the pardons in the world do no good if you won’t get out of my way.”

John winced, stepping aside without another word. He was just too shocked to reply, blinking dumbly at the opposite wall of the hallway as the boy stepped into the room and John stepped out of it.

Until he heard a scoff behind and then a word spoken like a curse. “Athletes.”

John spun on his heel, tongue ready with a barb, but the boy was already out of sight. Well, John wasn’t going to storm in there just to deliver what would probably be a mediocre comeback. So, he walked away, shoes in hand.

Most of the team had left already, leaving a handful milling in the hallway putting on shoes or gathering their stuff. John spotted Greg leaning against the wall, and it was only when he approached that he saw the tiny girl standing next to him, fiddling with the ends of the string tying her cardigan around her waist. It was a pink, fuzzy thing, open knit so the black leotard underneath was clearly visible. A little, gauzy skirt was wrapped around her waist, and she wore black Doc Martens over long, thick wool socks, which seemed an odd mix to John, not to mention the line of flat silver clips running from ear to ear like a tiara.

John couldn’t quite stifle a chuckle. Leave it to Greg to find the one pretty girl in the building, if you didn’t count Mrs. Hudson, and flirt with her. Of course, it meant that John would have to wait a few more minutes to go home, but that was all right with him.

He tossed his bag on the wooden bench running the length of the hall across from Greg and his flirting partner, and sat next to it. They kept talking, not really paying John any mind, but that was fine. John wasn’t exactly in the mood to converse, nor did he even listen to what they were saying. He much preferred to dwell on that arsehole in the studio. He barely contained a scoff as he knotted his laces with more force than necessary. _Who cuts off an apology to tell someone to move? I wasn’t aware your time and energy was so much more important than mine._

God, he was just… an arsehole, that’s what, with his haughty stare and his cheekbones and his stupid posh face. The nerve of him.

“Molly,” a voice boomed, making all three of them flinch and stare at the source of the boom, the posh arsehole, peeking out from the doorway.

When had it become only the three of them in the hall?

Despite being one of the flinchers, Molly seemed unfazed. “Yes, Sherlock?”

“Why are you not in here? We were supposed to start five minutes ago.”

Molly moved to tuck a stray hair behind her ear even though every last one was firmly contained in the clips or the bun behind them. “I’ll be right in.”

Sherlock scoffed, rolled his eyes, and disappeared back into the studio.

“I’d better go.” Molly touched Greg’s elbow. “It was nice to meet you, Greg.”

“Oh yes, you mustn’t leave the prima ballerina waiting,” John cut in.

She giggled, hiding it behind her hand, but she quickly stifled it. “He’s not so bad, once you get to know him.”

“Yeah. That’s going to happen.” John glanced at Greg, expecting to see amusement or empathy, but what he got instead was a face that clearly said _shut the fuck up_. John cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Molly,” Greg said. “This is John.”

John held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Molly shook it tenderly. “Are you on the rugby team, too?”

John nodded. “Greg told you about the team?”

“Oh, no. Marth-- Mrs. Hudson does these ballet for athletes classes all the time. I think it’s great, but Sherlock hates them.” She put her hand on her forehead like she was about to faint, her voice going low and sullen. “The noise. The people.”

They all chuckled until Sherlock’s voice boomed even louder. “Molly!”

Molly jumped, skittering away. “Better go. See you next week.”

“Count on it,” Greg called after her.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time the clock crept towards the hour mark, John shoulders had entered the region by his ears. Even Mrs. Hudson noticed, correcting his posture several times towards the end of class.

“Shoulders back and down, dear, even when the arms are overhead.”

Greg elbowed John in the ribs.

“What?” John whispered, rubbing his side.

“She’s here.”

Sure enough, Molly was standing in the doorway. She smiled and gave Greg a little wave, holding her hand at waist level. And a few feet behind her, Sherlock leaned against the opposite wall, watching the class with nothing that resembled interest. God, John could feel the contempt from across the room, like Sherlock couldn't believe these disgusting _athletes_ were sharing the same space with him.

What a tosser.

“Boys, if you are quite done staring at Miss Hooper, perhaps you’d like to join us in a cool down?”

They both cast their eyes to the floor, giving a short nod. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Now, face the barre, feet in second position…”

Mrs. Hudson took them through a series of stretches, each more awkward than the last. John felt like an idiot twisting and turning his body into pretzels. Unfortunately, the only pretzel shape his body would conform to was the stick. And all this with Sherlock watching, gathering ammo for his already-skewed perception of John.

“Wonderful job, boys. I want to see some work on those pliés this week. Remember to turn out from the hip.” She pointed a playful accusatory finger at them. “I can tell who’s been doing their homework, and I’m not afraid to embarrass you in front of your teammates.”

A half-hearted laugh murmured through the group.

Mrs. Hudson motioned to shoo them away. “All right. Dismissed.” 

Most of the team made for the door, except Greg (for obvious reasons) and John. Really, John had to remember to leave his gym bag in the hall next time. At least it would give him a fighting chance not to run into His Nibs again. Though, good luck with that with Sherlock standing right outside the door, leaning against the wall, feet jutting like there weren’t twenty people trying to get out of the room. And he had the nerve to look at them like they were the ones at fault.

Meanwhile, Molly waited just inside the door, politely out of the way, pretending not to watch Greg approach. John tossed his bag over his shoulder with a chuckle. Those two. Greg was completely gone on her, and if the way she looked at him were any indication, she wasn’t far behind. Who could blame her? Greg was tall and handsome and charming. All things John was not. Well, except for the charming part.

As John made for the door, Molly waved. “Hi, John.”

John stepped aside from the stragglers filtering through the door. “Hey.”

Her eyes flitted back and forth between John and Greg. “Good class?”

Greg stood tall and proud. “You tell me.”

Molly giggled.

“Speak for yourself,” John groaned, stretching through his chest. “Why am I more sore after these classes than regular practice?”

Sherlock, emerging like Venus from the last couple of team members filtering out, said as he strode by, “Because you’re a sledgehammer, not a surgical scalpel.”

Was that a jab at John’s… No, couldn’t be.

John spun on his heel, marching towards the center of the room where Sherlock had dropped his own bag. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock slid his feet apart on the slick floor before lunging to one side, propping an elbow on his knee. “I had no idea the educational policies among athletes were so lax. I had assumed you’d be familiar with the concept of the metaphor.”

“Yeah.” John gripped the strap of his bag. “Ta. I know what a metaphor is.”

Sherlock shifted his body weight to the center, bending both knees, pushing them back with his forearms. He shrugged. “Then I fail to see why any explanation is necessary.”

And Sherlock, the God-damned berk, smirked at him. He fucking smirked.

John was sure that he contracted a fatal case of tetanus at that very moment. _Great. So, either John’s an idiot or Sherlock doesn’t have to own up to his insult._ “Fine. That’s just”--John pried his hand from the strap of his bag to give a dismissive wave--“fine.”

John was ready to walk away. He’d already shifted his weight to his back heel to turn around, but then Sherlock wrapped his hands around his ankles and spoke.

“I was merely stating that you are a blunt instrument rather than a precision tool.” He shifted his forearms to his thighs once again, lunging to the other side.

Really, how did anyone become that flexible? And did he really have to stretch while they were talking? And facing a mirror, no less. He probably loved looking at himself, no surprise there.

“And I suppose you’re the precision tool in this situation.”

Sherlock shrugged. “That’s your judgment, not mine.”

John scoffed. “You’ve got the tool part right, anyway.”

Sherlock leapt to his feet, calves slapping together before his feet landed perfectly aligned in a vee. Show off. “And you have the blunt part. Or no. Not blunt. Dull.”

John surged forward, leaving scant inches between him and Sherlock, staring up with danger in his eyes. “Do you want to see how blunt I can be?” 

Sherlock stared down at John, only the barest flash in his eyes betraying any emotion, though John couldn't tell what that would be. John had been in this position enough to know that he could out-intimidate anyone, no matter how much taller than John they were. Hell, it had been two years since a confrontation like this had come to blows.

But, what was unnerving was that Sherlock was making no attempt to intimidate back. He was just staring, like a scientist would at a specimen, one fascinating and disgusting. John could feel his will shrinking back even as he forced his body to rigidity. He couldn't be kowtowed by a stare, especially with Greg right there. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Sherlock stepped back, swinging an arm across his body until he could catch the elbow in his opposite hand, stretching through his back.

He shook out his arms before swinging them to the opposite position. “Like I said. Dull.”

And then, John apparently no longer existed to him. He crossed to the barre, running through some sort of warmup exercise. The only movement of the myriad many that John could name was the plié.

“John,” Greg startled John with a nudge to the ribs, tone of voice projecting a lack of awareness of their little drama. “Molly asked me to watch the first few minutes of practice. You don't mind sticking around for a bit, do you?”

“Yeah. I’ll just…” He was about to suggest that he wait in the hall, but then Sherlock won. “Fine.”

John dropped his bag by the door and stood in front of it, slouching against the wall, arms and feet crossed in front of him. He made no attempt to hide his scowl, well aware that he was acting like a petulant child but vibrating with too much anger to care. Who was Sherlock to call him blunt? Dull? He didn’t know John at all. John got good grades, thank you very much. He was going to ace his A-levels at the end of the year. He was going to be a doctor, and without the aid of Sherlock’s ridiculous family money. That’s right. John saw the Jaguar parked outside when they left last week. It didn’t belong to any of the rugby team, and it sure as hell wasn’t Molly’s or Mrs. Hudson’s.

“Cheer up, Watson.” Greg bumped John’s shoulder with his upper arm. “It’s only ten minutes. You got somewhere else to be?”

“What?” John jumped, shocked out of his reverie like a glass shattering to the floor, and it was only then that he realized that he’d been staring at Sherlock, and too late, because Sherlock chose that moment to lift up to the balls of his feet and pivot 180 degrees. John’s gaze snapped to Greg’s face. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

John scrubbed the back of his neck, hazarding a glance in Sherlock’s direction only to find him rolling his eyes.

“Is everything all right, boys?” Mrs. Hudson popped into existence like Glinda the Good Witch. “Did you forget something?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson,” Greg said. “Molly invited us to stay for a bit.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.” She squeezed both their arms. “I’m so glad you’ve taken an interest.”

“Thanks,” Greg said, and John nodded and made a noise in the back of his throat. He was paying attention. Really, he was, but he could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, making his skin crawl, and he couldn’t help but glance over to verify what he felt.

“You know, if you’d like to continue after rugby season, we have a beginner’s class just for teenagers.” She nudged John’s elbow, forcing his focus to un-split. “Lots of pretty girls. We love a boy who can dance.”

John nodded politely.

The corners of her eyes crinkled. “Sherlock teaches it.”

John barked out a laugh, which was apparently loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room.

He blanched. “Yeah. I’ll… think about it.”

“I hope you will.” She gave his elbow one last squeeze before spinning on her toes. Her whole posture changed, making her seem two inches taller, and she clapped several times. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Definitely more than ten minutes later, John stuffed his bag into the footwell of Greg’s passenger seat.

“Could you at least try to behave yourself?” Greg started the car.

John paused with the safety belt halfway across his torso. “What are you talking about?”

“Look. I get it. Sherlock’s a bit of a prat--”

“A bit?”

“--but you need to ease up.”

John could only gape. “Ease up?”

“Yes. I really like Molly, and I don't want her thinking my best mate is a jerk.”

John shoved the buckle into the latch. “I’m not the jerk here.”

“Doesn't matter. He’s her friend, so can you play nice? For me?”

John scoffed. “Really? You just met her.”

“And you just met him,” Greg threw back as he started the car.

“What’s your point?”

“Give him a chance so I can have a chance.”

John thought about it. “Is she really that important to you?”

Greg put the car in gear. “She can hold her leg above her head.”

John laughed. “Plus her brains and personality, right?”

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! I hadn't realized it's been over a month since I posted the first chapter. Thanks for your patience, or if you've forgotten about this fic like I apparently did, surprise!
> 
> Many thanks as well to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta.


	3. Chapter 3

John was proud to say that the next two weeks went swimmingly. He and Sherlock didn’t say a single word to each other. True, he still got that annoying clench in his stomach when he saw Sherlock and Molly waiting in the hall outside as class was ending, but he’d so far managed not to be near the doorway the same time as Sherlock. He’d so far managed to watch the first few minutes of whatever Sherlock and Molly were working on that week without scowling at Sherlock the whole time.

And if that wasn’t good enough for Greg, well, he’d just have to live with it. And if Sherlock did throw a snide remark in John’s direction, what was he supposed to do? Not defend himself?

Of course, it hadn’t come to that. There hadn’t been more than a few glances between them, though sometimes John could swear he saw a snide comment just behind those pupils, and he just itched for it. _Go ahead, Sherlock. Come and get me. See what happens._

After the rousing success of the previous weeks, John walked into the dance studio on Wednesday, brimming with confidence (even if he was running late) only to hear the proverbial record scratch. His team wasn’t in the room. All he saw when he first entered were Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock had her hoisted high in the air, like a swan in flight, but the second John’s trainers squeaked against the dance floor, Sherlock unceremoniously set her down and spun on John.

It seemed totally illogical that there was still music playing.

Sherlock thrust petulant fists against his own hips. “What is he doing here?”

John felt like a fish out of water, complete with the opening and closing mouth, flailing for words, actions, a thought, anything. He glanced around, like he expected his teammates to materialize from the walls. Why was no one there? Was he that late?

Sherlock pointed to John’s shoes before pointing out the door. “Why are you wearing trainers in here? Get out.”

Molly slapped his hand out of the air, murmuring something to him. John could only furrow his brows and stare as Mrs. Hudson shut off the stereo, as Greg sunk into the chair beside her, stocking feet sliding on the floor.

Hang on, why was Greg there?

Why had John not yet spoken or moved? He had all kinds of remarks and comebacks at the ready just five minutes ago and yet? Nothing.

“I-- I thought we had practice.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Molly and Sherlock are auditioning for the arts university this weekend, so I cancelled class. I announced it at the end of class last week.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I doubt anything can penetrate that thick head of his.”

Why the little… “Hey--”

“Hush now, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson cut in. “Be nice.”

“How did you even get here?” Greg’s voice just a few feet from him made John jump.

“I had a dentist’s appointment. Harry drove me.”

“Well then, he can drive you home. Problem solved.” Sherlock shot John a glare before leveling a slightly more pleasant look at Mrs. Hudson. “Can we get back to practice please?”

The shell-shocked feeling was subsiding, and John’s cheeks burned with an interesting assortment of rage and embarrassment. He didn’t know whether to yell or apologize. And he didn’t know how he was getting home. And Sherlock was still staring at him like he was trying to burn a hole into his skull.

“Harry’s a girl.” _Oh yes, John. Brilliant comeback._

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, but Greg tapped John’s elbow with his knuckles. “Hey. No worries. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Cheers.” John stepped backwards towards the door, jostling his gym bag and backpack.

“After practice.”

Oh. John didn't realize there had been more to that sentence. But, it was his own fault that he was stuck in this situation. If he hadn't been so damned preoccupied with Sherlock and his own promise to Greg to play nice, John wouldn't have missed the announcement at the end of class. Plus, the look Greg was giving him was about twenty shades of desperate.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. That’s fine.”

“No.”

“Sherlock!” Molly reprimanded, but Sherlock didn't register it.

“This practice is supposed to be private. It’s bad enough that I’ve had to put up with him tagging along for the past three weeks. I won't be doing it today.”

For Greg’s sake, John bit back what he really wanted to say. _I’d rather walk over coals than watch your poncy arse dance anyway._ “Doesn't matter. I’ll wait in the hall. I have homework to do.”

“Here, dear.” Mrs. Hudson handed him a springy bracelet with a key dangling from it. “You can sit in my office if you’d like. More comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

***

Sometime later, after a mighty struggle with the derivatives of logarithms, John jumped at the sound of a door opening.

“Oh, John. I'm glad you’re still here. I was afraid you’d left with my key.”

“No, Mrs. Hudson.” John picked up the key from the desk, handing it over. “It’s right here.”

“Thank you, dear. You head home now.” She patted his shoulder as he packed up.

He flung on his backpack and threw the gym bag over his shoulder. “Thanks for letting me use your office, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll see you next week?”

She chuckled, giving him another pat. “Yes. Same time next week. Don't forget to practice.”

“I won't.”

“Good night, dear.”

“Good night.”

By this point in the evening, John should have known better than to go through a door while feeling good, but he did it anyway. He walked down the empty hall and out into the empty car park.

Empty except for a Jaguar.

“That certainly took long enough.”

John closed his eyes, letting out a long breath through his nose as he struggled not to grind his teeth to the nub. It couldn't be. Greg wouldn't do that to him.

Slowly, hoping against hope that he confused whose voice he heard, John pivoted on his heels. Just outside the door to the building stood Sherlock, grinding a cigarette butt into the gravel with the toe of his boot.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked.

John winced. “Ready for what?”

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes before jangling his keys like he was entertaining a baby. “To go home.”

“No. No way. You are not driving me home.”

“Very well.” Sherlock shrugged, striding for his car. The headlights flashed, making John jump, but it wasn’t until Sherlock opened the driver’s side door that John was forced into action.

“Wait!” he called out, sprinting for the car, jostling bags making him teeter back and forth like a bloody weeble-wobble.

He was really developing a knack for looking like an idiot in front of Sherlock. He wished he would stop. His cheeks burned, the weight of Sherlock’s stare bearing down, leaving him torn between collapsing under it or lashing out. Until he could decide, he simply stared back.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, pushing a button on the inside of his door. The latches moved. “Oh? Does he deign to get in my car now?”

“Fine. Can we go now?” John tugged on the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “Wha--”

“Say it,” Sherlock purred. Oh, he was just loving this, wasn’t he?

“Say what?”

“Ask me nicely”--Sherlock folded his arms over the roof--“to give you a ride.”

John scoffed. “You must be joking.”

Sherlock smirked. “Am I?”

God damn it, Sherlock had him over a barrell. His home was a good twenty minutes away; no way could he afford a taxi, and he didn’t even know where the closest bus stop was. But maybe Mrs. Hudson could…

He glanced at the darkened door only to have Sherlock cut off his thought. “She doesn’t own a car. She lives on the property.”

He could call Harry, but she was probably half in the bag by this time of night. And there was no way he’d call his father.

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

John huffed, intoning, “Please will you give me a ride home.”

“Once more. With feeling.”

John was definitely going to kill Greg. “You’re just loving this, aren’t you?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “A bit.”

John took a deep breath, making his words as genuine as possible, which wasn’t very. “Please, Sherlock, will you give me a ride home?”

“Of course.” Sherlock swung himself into the driver’s seat, and John heard the locks move again. This time, when he tugged the handle, the door opened, and he tossed his bags into the footwell and flopped into the seat.

“Buckle up.” Sherlock started the car.

John almost didn’t. He wouldn’t have Sherlock telling him what to do, but then the car lurched out of its parking spot and peeled out onto the road.

John scrambled to buckle his seat belt. “Don’t you need to know where I live?”

“Graham gave me the address.”

“Greg.”

Sherlock waved it away. “Whatever.”

John settled into his seat, propping his elbow on the center console. “Wait a minute. Are you-- Do you have…”

“Do I have a what?” Sherlock bit. “Spit it out.”

“Do you fancy Molly?”

“No.” Sherlock drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Not my area.”

“Good.”

Sherlock eyed John from the corner of his eye, fingers stilling on the wheel.

“Don’t want to get stuck in the middle of a messy love triangle.”

“Right.” Sherlock dropped his own elbow on the center console, knocking John’s off.

John huffed. The prat couldn’t even share the armrest. Typical. He pushed his elbow against Sherlock’s, taking over the space, but then Sherlock elbowed his forearm.

John grunted. Sherlock’s elbow was sharp, but John would not be deterred. He held his ground, leaning into his arm as Sherlock tried to push him out of the way. He might have a bruise or two on his forearm the next day, but it was worth it just to see the growing frustration in Sherlock’s face, no matter how much he tried to hide it. That was just what happened when a scalpel went up against a sledgehammer.

“For God’s sake.” Sherlock yanked his arm away, and John’s elbow slid out from underneath him, sending him off kilter and sending his elbow into Sherlock’s rib.

As soon as John’s elbow made contact, knocking the air out of Sherlock, Sherlock’s hand was in a vice around John’s wrist, pushing it across the centerline of the car to John’s leg.

Sherlock shoved John’s wrist against John’s thigh. “Stop it. Do you want us to crash?”

John jerked his hand out from underneath Sherlock’s, rubbing the jab marks on his forearm. “It takes two to tango, smartarse.”

Sherlock pulled his hand from John’s leg to rub at his ribs. “Such a juvenile.”

“Pot. Kettle.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They rode in tense silence the rest of the way, and even though Sherlock’s insane driving got them to John’s flat in half the usual time, it felt like forever. Like they went so fast that time warped around them. And it wasn’t until they were pulling onto John’s street that John realized Sherlock, Jag-driving posh Sherlock, was about to see where John lived. He was about to see the tiny, dingy, dodgy one-bedroom garden flat that he shared with Harry and his dad. He only hoped Sherlock wouldn't comment on it.

Sherlock pulled to the side of the road and threw the car in park. “Here we are.”

“Yep.” John grabbed his bags and opened the door. One foot out the door and bags poised over one shoulder, John paused. “Cheers.”

“Don’t mention it.”

John finished his ascent to the kerb and closed the car door, and with that, Sherlock peeled off. John trotted down the few stairs to his door and unlocked it. Harry was nowhere to be found, and John’s dad had already left for work, though the evening news droned on the telly. He shut it off and dropped his bags on his bed before going into the kitchen to fix himself some beans on toast.

That night, he dreamed of fighting. He dreamed of fists punching, of elbows jabbing, of hands grabbing. He dreamed of being pinned down and of screaming for his adversary to get off him.

He dreamed of a deep voice purring in his ear, “Ask me nicely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my beta, Iamjohnlocked4life.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Iamjohnlocked4life for the beta. This is a true WiP, so I make no promises on posting schedule or when it will be finished, but I do have several chapters drafted already. So I've got that going for me. I hope you'll enjoy the ride with me.
> 
> Also, I'm a little shit who doesn't like to explicitly state the year in which the story takes place, so let's see who figures it out first. (Bwahahahahah)


End file.
